


Caramel

by coolbyrne



Category: NCIS
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-13
Updated: 2019-05-13
Packaged: 2020-03-02 14:58:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18813256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coolbyrne/pseuds/coolbyrne
Summary: Sometimes it's the little things that trigger big changes. Like a dance in the kitchen.





	Caramel

This wasn't how he imagined finding himself in her bed. Not that he imagined it. Ever. At all. Much.

_Oooh, when did you start lying to yourself?_

He ignored the inner accusation and rolled over. Sheets that were softer and smelled a hell of a lot better than his bunched around his waist, a seductive embrace around his bare torso. Tentatively, he lifted a corner of the cover to check underneath. 

_At least ya kept your pants on._

Squinting away the early morning sun and the late night hangover, he tried to get his bearings. For a woman he might (privately) categorize as ‘quirky’, her room was surprisingly utilitarian, a residual habit from her Army days, no doubt. The craftsmanship of the oak dresser in the corner caught his eye, but everything else seemed standard fare- 2 night stands, a chair and a simple desk. The night stand on his left had a half empty glass of water and a bottle of Tylenol, both of which he vaguely remembered her administering. And at least he knew where his clothes ended up. Over the back of the chair draped his suit, 2 shirts and tie. He squeezed his temples between his thumb and forefinger, hoping to sharpen the images that flashed behind his eyes.

Hands and mouths, sighs and groans. Tripping up the stairs. Laughter. Uncovered skin, not just his own. His fingers and lips tingled at the memory- until he remembered an objection that doused his libido, because even 3 drinks over the limit, he knew ‘wait’ meant ‘no’. How exactly he still ended up _in_ the bed wasn't as clear. 

In fact, how he ended up _here_ wasn’t even clear cut. He knew the night was pushed on him by Leon, who said the best way to get over their most recent case was to spend it with friends and good whiskey. In Gibbs’ opinion, the annual company party could’ve invited 139 less people and offered better bourbon. He also argued that a night out wouldn’t do much to wipe away the feeling of failure that settled and sloshed in the pit of his stomach. The death of a 7 year old had a tendency to linger. But no amount of avoidance could prevent Vance from doing everything short of strong-arming him to the party. So he dug out a better-than-work suit and showed up 10 minutes past ‘fashionably late’, grabbed a beer and settled in the darkest corner he could find.

A few courageous agents swung by to talk shop but were rebuffed by a steely blue scowl and an arched eyebrow. They then scuttled off to give warning to any others contemplating poking the bear. He ventured out once, to dance with Bishop, but that was out of protective necessity rather than a desire to join the living. The closest anyone got, both literally and figuratively- the dance with Ellie notwithstanding- was Jack, who had charmed her way through a phalanx of admirers to come sit beside him. She had given it the ‘3 times the charm’ try over the course of the night, attempting to pull him from the shadows by asking him to dance. Instead, the results were more ‘3 strikes you’re out’. By the third time, her enthusiasm had grown into concern, then dismay that no amount of cajoling or conversation could lift him. He couldn’t quite remember what she had said, if only because on her last attempt, he was well past the acceptable cut off limit, and in the din of music and chatter, he found he could only concentrate on her eyes.

Getting here- _Tim_. The fog was starting to lift on bigger pieces of the puzzle. Ever-dependable McGee had somehow not only jostled him into the back of the car, but convinced Jack to let him drop them both at her house. 

And now, here he was, semi-dressed, half-confused, and more than mildly embarrassed. He wasn’t a kid anymore; the nights of drinking past his limit should have been well behind him. In the very least, those nights should be behind closed doors, in the privacy of his own home. Alone. So he didn’t get caught with (almost literally) his pants down.

His ears strained for sound in the quiet house and caught a snippet of something that he identified as ‘kitchen noise’. Delaying the inevitable a little while longer by looking for something to get rid of the cotton in his mouth, he saw the bedroom had a small bathroom. Grabbing his t-shirt and padding across the room, he couldn't help but smile when he saw a new toothbrush, still in its packaging, sitting on the edge of the sink. The gesture was appreciated and, like the water and Tylenol on the nightstand, warmed him in an unexpected way. It had been a long time since someone offered him the small moments of care. Splashing cold water on his face and brushing his teeth, he couldn’t find a reason to put things off any longer. He looked at cloudy blue eyes that stared back.

_Man up, Marine._

The house was newer than his and didn't have the worn spots on the stairs, allowing him to come down quietly. Half of him had hoped for a creak or groan that would announce his arrival so he wouldn't have to, but the other half was more than happy for the stealth when he saw her in the kitchen.

Seeing Casual Jack wasn't a new thing; she had crashed at his place enough times after a long wind-down for him to have seen her without makeup, hair tousled, the morning waking across her face. But this seemed different. Maybe because they were on her turf now, where the last vestiges of self-consciousness could finally disappear. Because he wasn't sure he had ever seen her so-

He wondered why he was pretending to struggle with the word.

_Beautiful, you asshole. She's beautiful._

With her back to him, she was facing the window over the counter, though her eyes were closed, basking in the sun. Her hair was up in that way only women could do- messy, mussed, yet completely sexy, exposing the neck his lips suddenly remembered getting acquainted with last night. She had sweatpants that said ‘ARMY across an ass that had no right to look so good in such mundane clothing, and a white tank top contrasted against the California bronze she had still somehow managed to keep. A history that made him bristle criss crossed over shoulder blades and under the scooped neckline, but she bore it with a confidence he couldn't help but admire. If there was anything vulnerable about her, it was her bare feet and toes that peeked a tease of glossy pink. 

Like this, he could have looked at her all day. Then a song came on from a source he couldn't locate, and her hips began swaying and he was a goner. It was a subtle motion, a kind of sensual figure 8 that, of the two of them, only she seemed unaware she was doing. The rhythm rippled up to her shoulders that began to roll back in time with her hips. Her head tilted back and forth, countering the movement and her fingers gently tapped the counter. Though he couldn't place the song, she must've known it because a soft string of murmured words came from her lips. She couldn't sing worth a damn, and there was something in that knowledge that made him smirk. The fact that she obviously knew she couldn’t but did it anyway somehow only made it sexier. It was confidence and joy all rolled into a package that held him captive. She clearly liked the song and he more than enjoyed watching her enjoy it. There was something in the moment that struck him hard in the chest. Coming down the stairs, seeing her in the kitchen, smelling the pot of coffee she had started at the end of the counter, the newspaper on the table with the black reading glasses he had borrowed on more than one occasion- it all seemed so… normal. It was the first time yet somehow seemed like they had been doing it forever.

The song presented a high note she couldn't hit and his blind was exposed by his laugh.

“Jesus!” she exclaimed, spinning around, hand over her heart.

“Close,” he drawled, enjoying the front view as much as the back.

“Ass.”

“Closer.”

She grinned at his self-deprecating humor. Without asking, she grabbed 2 mugs from a row of hooks under the cupboard, poured him a coffee and one for herself. As she scooped the sugar into hers, she said, “I can feel you judging me.” Without remorse, she gestured to the table and met him there. “How'd you sleep?”

It was a simple question yet it prompted him to realize he had slept better than he had in ages. 

“Good.”

The surprise in his voice brought a shy smile to her face, as if the thought of him sleeping well in her home made her inexplicably happy.

“Good,” she replied in return. She watched him savour the coffee she had made just this side of tar, just for him. His low murmur was her reward. Tapping her fingers against her cup, she waited a moment before blurting, “So, about last night.”

The mug stopped midway to his lips. Her statement opened a lot of doors and he wasn't sure which one she was going through or which one he wanted to.

“You made me dance with Claude Zubrinski from Accounting.”

The accusation was so threaded with petulance that he let out a laugh before he saw her expression, a frown of stern annoyance. He covered his slip by letting the mug finish its journey to his mouth. Swallowing hard, he said, "I don't dance."

"Bullshit. You danced with Ellie."

This time, his laugh was for a memory, though her blunt reaction didn’t hurt. "Torres' head was about to explode if one more guy asked her to dance. Figured I'd save him the HR hassle."

"Ah," she said, her voice light at the realization. "You did the Scowling Dad routine."

"Somethin' like that." 

When he drained his cup, she jerked her head in the coffee pot's direction, encouraging him to help himself. Though it was something he would've done had the roles and places been reversed, the easy unspoken invitation only made it seem more like home.

"Well, all I'm saying is, I could've used some of that scowl to fend off Claude."

Her comment held little accusation, but he suddenly felt like a heel. It was always going to be a shitty night for him, but there was no reason it had to be one for her. He turned and leaned against the counter.

"I shoulda stepped in," he said by way of apology. "Wasn't thinkin'."

She joined him for a top up of her own. He grabbed the pot before she had the chance, and she watched the dark liquid swirl into the white porcelain. Without a prompt, he scooped a heaping spoon of sugar into the coffee, and when she pouted, he added another half. Her small displeased 'Hmph!' was ignored, the clink of spoon against cup taking its place. He tapped the lip gently before rinsing the spoon and placing it beside the sugar bowl. 

"Caramel."

The word triggered something in the back of his brain. "What?"

"You asked me last night if my eyes would better be described as 'caramel' or 'butterscotch'." 

His fought to maintain an impassive expression, but he could feel 2 small spots of heat across his cheeks. He remembered concentrating on her eyes when the alcohol finally took hold; he didn't remember anything more than that.

Seeing his doubt, she shrugged and held up a hand. "Hey, I'm just telling you how it went down. You were pretty insistent on getting an answer, but Claude charmed me away. Again." The wrinkle of her nose said all that needed to be said about her dance partner. The fact the accountant tried and succeeded twice brought a different look to his face. "Yes! _That's_ the look I needed last night!"

"Claude's gonna get a visit," he growled.

She nudged his shoulder. "Poor guy works with numbers all day. His pickup line was him trying to guess my measurements." Her eyes fluttered at him playfully.

"Five-five," he said. "Really think I’m gonna guess more than that?"

Her head tilted back and her laughter filled the kitchen. "Very good," she praised. Offering a nonchalant shrug, she raised her cup to her lips, but not before saying, " _You_ had a much better pickup line." She took a sip and frowned, turning back to the sugar and adding another spoon.

He knew she had dropped that little bomb in the hopes he would ask, and despite scouring his memory for a hint of what he might have said, it looked like she might get her wish. He gave up once he saw her add yet more sugar to her coffee.

"Cough it up, Agent Sloane."

Her eyebrow raised at the formal address. "Ooh, Agent Gibbs!" She decided she had made him suffer in wait long enough. Besides, she was wildly curious about the fallout. "Let's see," she said, looking up at the ceiling, feigning a vague recollection. "Right! You said, it's a known fact that the best light in a house is in the bedroom and that you'd be able to figure out my eye colour there."

Time stood still as he searched her eyes for a flicker or a flinch. Steel eyes that broke their fair share of suspects had little effect on an impassive face that gave as good as it got. Even his narrowed stare, laser focused, fell at the feet of her defenses. Still, he gave it a shot.

“You’re lyin’.” 

She mirrored his stare and his tone. “Am I?”

It wasn’t often that he doubted himself. His gut- ‘legendary’ as she called it- had served him well over the years. But it couldn’t quite get a handle on this woman. He doubted he would resort to a pickup line- drunk or not- and yet, he was starting to believe she could make him do just about anything. 

Like kissing her, for instance.

He could taste the sugar on her tongue and had a new appreciation for the sweetness. He had an even greater appreciation for the way she blindly put her mug behind her, giving her hands the freedom to circle around his waist, curl up around his shoulder blades and pull him closer. Whatever he had said last night, whatever was truth or lies, he knew for certain that everything that he _could_ remember, even in foggy recollection, had happened. The tie that held back her hair found its way on the floor so he could thread his fingers through blonde tresses and hold her tight, her own hands balling up his cotton shirt in much the same way. Wordlessly, they switched positions, allowing her fingers to lightly scratch his scalp while his slid down to cover the 'ARMY', and there was something almost judgmental in his groan that made her chuckle. 

"I'll get 'MARINE' ones this afternoon," she promised against his lips.

"You do that." 

His hands curled, possessive and protectively, stopping the countertop from jutting into her hips as he pushed his own forward. Her lithe curves filled in all his edges, conspiring with her fingers and her mouth, her sighs and her moans, to make him abandon all hope of ever going back from last night. Hell, the minute he came down those stairs was the beginning of the end. Still, he pulled back, if only to make sure. Well, he tried, but his bottom lip was held captive between her teeth before she released it with a dissatisfied moan. 

"It's startin' to come back to me now."

Her eyebrow rose in delight and she smiled against his lips, not letting him pull back too far. "Is it?"

He nodded minutely while answering her chaste kisses with his own. "Pretty sure."

"Mmmm," she murmured, feigning concern at his supposed memory loss. "Maybe I should help?" She reached around for his hands and slipped them under her tank top, settling them just under her breasts. "It was something like this," she said, claiming ownership of his lips. "Remember?"

He hummed his acknowledgement and gladly played his part in the re-enactment by drawing his mouth from her lips to her throat, his morning beard scraping a seductive burn along the way. 

"Yes, just like that," she sighed, tilting her head back, her voice and fingers encouraging his mouth lower as his hands went higher. She arched her hips into his and was rewarded with a rumbled moan under her ear. Her fingers slipped from his hair and down his chest to meet together at his belt. She was just beginning to divest him (and her) of the obstacle when a sound came from his pocket.

He dropped his head to her shoulder, his breath hot and heavy against her skin. Reluctantly, he slipped his hand from under her shirt and into his pocket for the offending device.

“We were just getting to the good part,” she all but whined.

“Yeah,” he said, to her and to the caller.

“Hey, Boss, it’s me.”

“McGee.”

“Yeah. Just wanted to see how you were doing.” The young agent had the grace not to go into detail about the previous night.

“I’m good.” 

Jack raised up on tiptoes to whisper in his ear, “I bet you are.”

The tug on her hair didn’t stop her enterprising hands from sneaking under his shirt and he nearly jumped at the contact. With one hand in her hair and the other on his phone, he was woefully outnumbered against her playfully seductive onslaught. 

Oblivious to the events on the other side of the phone, McGee innocently asked, “You still with Agent Sloane?”

Another tug brought a smirk to her face. 

“Yep.”

The one-word reply didn’t phase the agent who had plenty of experience with the monosyllabic man. “Okay, Boss. Good to hear. I’ll see you on Monday.”

As was his habit, Gibbs snapped the phone shut without saying goodbye. He tossed the cell onto the counter and leaned forward with a low menace that only made her laugh, but her hands halted their adventures when he looked away.

“Wait.”

She wasn’t sure how much he remembered, but her recollection was crystal clear, and her reaction to his pause was exactly the same as his had been. And as he had done, she reached up to cup his face and repeated his whispered, “As long as you need.”

The phone call had given him time to get his bearings, but he couldn’t look at her if he wanted to keep his head straight. Going over what he knew of the night before, he assumed her hesitancy was due to his intoxication- no good decision ever came from the bottom of a bottle, and she had clearly learned that lesson just as well as he did. His own hesitancy came from a different place, though. Friends to bed partners was a romantic premise that often left acres of hurt in its wake. Co-workers to lovers could be even worse. He had done both and had the scars to prove it, literally and figuratively. But there was something in her eyes- her caramel eyes- that promised something different. He wasn’t sure if there needed to be more than that.

He blocked her escape with an arm. “Goin’ somewhere?”

She had been willing to give him time- it wasn’t an empty promise. She just wasn’t expecting him to make a decision so quickly. Blue eyes looked back at her, filled with a cocky assurance she had grown accustomed to associating with him. Slightly breathless at his openness and what it meant, she fell back on her humour.

“Was off to the Marine store to get some pants.”

“Why?” he asked. “Just gonna have to take ‘em off.”

“Bastard,” she accused.

“There you go,” he said, pulling her closer by the waistband of her sweats. “You got it now.”

She gave as good as she got, tugging his belt free. “Third time’s the charm.”

…..

-end.


End file.
